[HE  ]  IBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL  iFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


•Hit  LIBKAKY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


MEMORIES 


BY 

WILLIAM  BAUCHOP  WILSON 


SECOND  EDITION 
REVISED 


THE  TRADES  UNIONIST 
WASHINGTON.  D.  C. 


COPYRIGHTED,  1916.  BY  W.  B.  WILSON. 


DEDICATION 

*   * 

0  my  Father  and  Mother,  whose 
hopes  that  their  son  might  follow 
a  literary  career  have  not  been  realized, 
this  little  book  is  affectionately  inscribed 
as  a  partial  compensation  for  their  dis 
appointment. 

WILLIAM  BAUCHOP  WILSON. 
Christmas,  1902. 


2091802 


PREFACE 

*  + 

I  have  no  intention  of  inflicting  upon  the  general  public 
these  few  rhymes,  written,  principally,  under  the  influence  of 
youthful  exuberance.  It  could  not  be  expected  to  appreciate 
the  circumstances  under  which  they  came  into  existence  or 
overlook  the  defects  they  contain.  I  am  looking  for  a  more 
sympathetic  audience.  This  little  volume  has  been  printed 
(not  published)  for  circulation  amongst  those  intimate 
friends  of  mine  who  can  bury  its  poetical,  grammatical  and 
structural  defects  beneath  their  personal  respect  for  the 
author.  My  friend,  Sam,  says :  "No  man  ever  writes  poetry 
except  when  his  liver  is  out  of  order."  This  may  be  true, 
and,  if  it  is,  I  submit  this  book  to  my  friends  as  conclusive 
proof  that  my  life  has  been  a  reasonably  healthy  one. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


INTRODUCTION. 


No  great,  refined,  poetic  powers  I  claim  ; 

No  college  learning  smooths  my  humble  muse  ; 
Unknown  to  fortune,  hidden  far  from  fame, 

I  simply  sing,  because  to  sing  I  choose. 
Nor  shall  I  sing  of  lords  or  ladies  fair, 

Of  kings  or  queens  vain-glorious  in  might, 
Of  priests  or  parsons  bowed  in  holy  prayer 

Imploring  grace  to  guide  their  flocks  aright. 
Of  chivalry,  or  gallant  knights  of  old, 

Who  gloried  in  their  prowess  with  the  lance  ; 
Who  fought  for  ladies  bright,  for  kings  and  gold, 

For  transient  fame  and  pleasure,  too,  perchance. 
But,  as  I  tune  my  rude,  uncultured  lyre 

I'll  sing  the  praises  of  the  multitude 
Whose  toiling  brawn  and  brain  and  heart's  desire 

Moves  ever  for  their  fellow  beings'  good. 

When  England's  mighty  nobles  gathered  round 

The  sturdy  oak  on  Island  Runnymede, 
All  by  a  promise  to  each  other  bound 

To  give  the  future  freedom's  title  deed 
Signed  by  King  John,  and  ratified  by  those 

Whose  genius  grasped  the  coming  of  the  hour 
To  organize  the  forces,  to  oppose 

A  tyrant  monarch's  autocratic  power, 
A  strike  was  threatened.    On  the  issue  hung 

"Liberty  or  death,"  freedom  or  servile  strife 


To  all  the  race  that  speak  the  English  tongue 
And  value  liberty  more  dear  than  life. 

When  Freedom's  goddess,  sweet  enchanting  maid, 

Had  fled  Columbia's  ever  beautious  shore, 
When  low,  the  hand  of  Justice  had  been  laid 

And  brave  men  fought  with  desperation,  more 
To  guard  their  homes  from  arbitrary  wrong 

Than  to  resist  the  payment  of  the  cash 
Which  Britain  sought,  because  her  arm  was  strong, 

To  have,  or  force  collection  with  the  lash. 
When  through  the  time  that  tried  men's  souls 

The  patriot  fathers  stood,  unconquered  still, 
Trusting  to  Him  whose  destiny  controls, 

To  add  a  Yorktown  to  their  Bunker  Hill, 
'Twas  but  a  strike,  born  of  a  Union,  made 

By  separate  States,  each  of  itself  too  frail 
To  thwart  the  wrongs  imposed.    But  with  the  aid 

Each  gave  the  other,  wrong  could  not  prevail. 
But  strikes  like  these  are  far  beyond  my  muse. 

I  leave  them  for  a  greater  Minstrel's  themes, 
While  I,  a  lowly  humble  strain  may  choose 

And  sing  a  toiler's  hopes,  his  waking  dreams 
Of  coming  power  used  for  the  common  weal, 

Where  all  alike  in  God's  eternal  plan, 
Sharing  the  burdens  and  the  profits,  feel 

The  spirit  of  the  brotherhood  of  man. 

But  as  I  tune  my  rude,  uncultured  lyre, 
I'll  sing  the  praises  of  the  multitude, 

Whose  toiling  brawn  and  brain  and  heart's  desire 
Moves  ever  for  their  fellow  being's  good. 


THE  OLD  TIN  CAN. 

+  * 

There's  a  spring  of  sparkling  water  flowing  out  beneath  the 

hill, 
Where  the  trees  are  tall  and  shady  and  the  robins  sport  at 

will, 
As  the  breezes,  soft  and  pleasant,  in  the  summer's  sultry 

heat, 
Play  about  in  cooling  eddies  where  the  light  and  shadows 

meet. 

On  a  stone  within  the  shadows  sits  a  can  of  ancient  tin, 
With  a  band  of  rust  about  it  and  a  coat  of  rust  within ; 
But  there's  nothing  God  has  given  to  appease  the  thirst  of 

man 
Like  a  cooling  drink  of  water  from  that  old  tin  can. 

You  may  sip  the  rarest  vintage  from  the  sunny  soil  of  Spain, 
Quaff  the  purest  ardent  spirits  malted  from  the  golden  grain, 
Or  consume  a  foaming  tankard  of  the  brewer's  purest  mead ; 
Drink  the  fine  Italian  liquors  'till  your  blood  is  warm  indeed ; 
You  may  praise  with  fitting  ardor,  either  French  or  native 

wine, 

And  all  the  ancient  product  of  the  Moselle  or  the  Rhine ; 
But  there's  nothing  more  refreshing  ever  made  since  time 

began 
Than  a  cooling  drink  of  water  from  that  old  tin  can. 

*  *  *  *  * 

AUTUMN. 

*  * 

Sing  Ho !  for  the  depths  of  the  forest  glade, 
For  the  rocky  glen  and  the  cool  cascade 
When  the  painter's  hand  on  the  hills  is  laid 
And  the  Autumn  leaves  are  falling, 


And  the  soft  breeze  sings  through  the  leaves  and  limbs 
With  the  low,  sweet  strains  of  enchanting  hymns, 

Like  the  voice  of  an  Angel  calling. 
When  the  days  are  bright  and  the  nights  are  grey. 
And  the  squirrel  turns  from  his  summer's  play 
To  carefully  gather  his  stores  away 

As  the  rich,  brown  nuts  are  falling. 
Then  the  mystic  chords  that  pervade  the  trees 
Soon  soothe  the  toil-worn  heart  to  ease, 

Like  the  voice  of  an  Angel  calling. 

v 

*  *  *  *  * 

FRIENDSHIP. 
*  * 

Where  shall  we  look  when  the  heart  is  sad 

With  the  burden  of  many  cares? 
Where  shall  we  turn  when  the  weak  and  bad 

Have  covered  our  pathway  with  snares? 
Where  shall  we  seek  for  a  helping  hand 

When  the  body  and  spirit  bend  ? 
Ah!  then  we  must  seek  for  courage  and 

Unbosom  ourselves  to  a  friend. 
Where  shall  we  go  when  the  heart  is  gay 

And  throbs  with  a  pure  delight 
That  lightens  the  weight  of  toil  by  day 

And  sweetens  our  sleep  at  night? 
What  shall  we  do  when  the  battle  of  life 

Goes  on  with  a  glorious  trend  ? 
Ah !  then  in  the  joy  of  the  world's  strife 

We  must  share  our  hopes  with  a  friend. 


10 


AU  REVOIR. 

+  * 

Written  for  the  menu  of  a  banquet  to  John  Mitchell  on  the  eve  of  his 
departure  to  attend  the  British  Trade  Union  Congress  as  a  Fraternal 
Delegate  from  the  American  Federation  of  Labor. 

*  * 

We're  a  goin'  to  give  a  blow-out  to  Johnny  Mitchell,  now, 

In  honor  o'  the  trip  that's  addin'  laurels  to  his  brow. 

And  when  he  leaves  his  native  heath  our  hearts  '11  fill  with 

pain 

And  keep  a  constant  longin'  till  we  git  him  back  again. 
There  ain't  no  use  o'  talkin',  all  the  time  he  is  away 
We'll  miss  him  in  the  councils,  and  we'll  miss  him  in  the  fray 
When  sturdy  blows  are  needed  'gainst  the  wrong  and  for 

the  right, 

For  though  he  is  a  man  o'  peace  he  ain't  afraid  to  fight. 
He's  got  a  way  about  him  some  employers  doesn't  like, 
He  beats  them  in  convention  and  he  whips  them  in  the  strike, 
But  he's  won  their  admiration,  and  its  growin'  more  and 

more, 
For  they  know  he  stands  for  justice  and  he's  honest  to  the 

core. 

So  we're  goin'  to  give  a  blow-out  to  Johnny  Mitchell,  now, 
In  honor  o'  the  trip  that's  addin'  laurels  to  his  brow. 
And  in  this  partin'  moment  as  we  bid  him  "au  revoir," 
We  hail  him  Labor's  Prince  o'  Peace,  likewise  its  King  o' 

War. 

*A    A    A    A 
•p       9f       *£•       »j* 

JOHNNY  JUMPER. 

*  * 

He's  a  little  chap,  is  Johhny, 
Frail  of  form  and  pale  of  cheek, 

With  a  modest  disposition 
And  a  manner  mild  and  meek. 

11 


Not  a  soul  in  all  the  village, 

Where  the  boy  was  born  and  bred, 
Ever  guessed  the  latent  forces 

Lying  dormant  in  his  head. 
If  you'd  asked  his  nearest  neighbors 

If  they  thought  him  really  bright 
They'd  have  answered  very  plainly 

That  they  thought  his  heart  was  right, 
"But  so  far  as  brain  is  needed 

For  to  plan  and  scheme  and  such, 
And  for  nerve  to  execute  it, 

Johnny  don't  amount  to  much." 
In  the  many  miners'  meetings 

He  had  not  a  word  to  say, 
And  whatever  was  decided, 

That  was  always  Johnn's  way. 
For  he  learned  the  lesson  early, 

In  the  plain  Trade  Union  school, 
That  the  judgment  of  the  many 

Is  the  judgment  that  should  rule. 
So  he  left  his  work  serenely, 

Taking  all  his  kit  along, 
When,  one  day,  a  strike  was  voted, 

For  to  right  a  grievous  wrong. 
Four  long  months  the  strike  had  lasted, 

With  no  settlement  in  view, 
And  the  men  had  scattered  widely, 

Looking  for  some  work  to  do, 
Leaving  but  a  few  behind  them 

To  protect  their  interests  there, 
One  of  whom  was  Johnny  Jumper 

On  whose  shoulders  trust  and  care 
Were  experiments.    The  action 

Of  selecting  him  to  lead 


12 


In  a  move  of  such  importance 

Seemed  a  strange  and  risky  deed. 
But  he  wore  his  added  honors 

In  a  modest,  manly  way, 
And  his  form  was  ever  present 

In  the  thickest  of  the  fray, 
Cheering  on  his  weaker  comrades 

To  a  more  determined  stand, 
While  maintaining  law  and  order 

With  a  firm  but  gentle  hand. 
Thus  it  was  one  Autumn  evening 

When  the  strikers  all  had  gone 
From  the  village,  save  the  pickets 

Whom  the  men  depended  on 
To  apprise  such  stray  wayfarers 

As  might  seek  employment  there, 
Of  the  burdens  of  oppression 

Which  they  sought  to  make  more  fair, 
That  a  horde  of  drunken  rowdies, 

Filled  with  liquor  to  the  brim, 
Freely  furnished  by  the  bosses, 

Through  their  leader,  Broncho  Tim, 
Worked  themselves  into  a  frenzy 

While  they  strutted  up  and  down, 
Shouting  loudly  their  intentions — 

That  of  "cleaning  out  the  town." 
Broncho  Tim,  fierce,  tall  and  brawny, 

Swung  his  pistol  o'er  his  head, 
Challenging  to  mortal  combat 

So  that  he  could  shoot  him  dead, 
Any  man  among  the  strikers 

Who  would  dare  to  meet  a  foe 
With  the  reputation  he  had, 

Gathered  in  the  long  ago. 


13 


Rumor  whispered,  faint  and  lowly, 

Only  as  such  rumors  can, 
That,  on  more  than  one  occasion 

Broncho  Tim  had  "killed  his  man," 
And  their  bones  were  slowly  bleaching 

On  some  boundless  Western  plain, 
Proving  his  undaunted  courage 

But  his  challenge  was  in  vain. 
By  the  silence  much  emboldened, 

Loud  and  rank  his  curses  grew, — 
Called  them  anarchists  and  cattle, — 

Swore  he'd  bore  their  bodies  through, — 
Gathered  all  his  rowdies  round  him, 

Drove  the  sheriff  from  the  place, 
Styled  himself  the  "Lord  High  Mayor," 

Shoved  his  gun  in  every  face 
With  his  challenge.    Johnny's  patience 

Fled.    A  pale  film  swept  his  brow, 
"Sir,"  he  calmly  said,  "Your  challenge 

Is  accepted  here  and  now. 
Pistols,  I  suppose,  will  suit  you, — 

Any  distance  that  you  choose, 
But  three  paces  is  sufficient. 

What !    You  surely  don't  refuse 
After  all  your  blow  and  bluster  ?" 

While  he  spoke  the  giant's  frame 
Swayed  and  trembled  like  an  aspen, 

And  his  knees  together  came 
With  a  rythmic,  fast  vibration 

To  his  pulses  keeping  time, 
All  his  courage  oozing  from  him 

Like  the  filthy  flow  of  slime. 
Then  the  men  he  had  about  him 

As  they  saw  his  startled  face, 


14 


Lost  their  arrogant  assertion 

And  prepared  to  leave  the  place. 
"I  am  sick  today,"  he  muttered, 

But  some  other  day  we'll  see 
If  a  stunted  little  pigmy 

Can  defy  a  man  like  me." 
Then  the  rowdies,  all  crestfallen, 

With  their  leader  marched  away, 
Leaving  peace  and  hope  behind  them 

And  the  miners  won  the  day. 

*  *  *  *  + 

Lines  on  receiving  a  present  of 

A  NEW  PEN. 
*  * 

I  hain't  bin  a  writin'  but  little  of  late, 

I've  bin  lazy  an'  tired  an'  dull, 
An'  thoughts  wouldn't  think  in  my  old  thick  pate 

Er  ideas  enter  my  skull. 
But  I  hain't  as  tired  's  I  used  to  be 

An'  I've  started  to  writin'  agen 
No  more  of  the  lazy  and  dull  f  er  me — 

'Cause  I've  got  a  new  pen. 
Ideas  may  come  an'  ideas  may  go 

Like  the  regular  tides  o'  the  sea, 
Any  one  with  ideas  can  write,  you  know, 

Tho'  it  may  not  read  easy  an'  free. 
It's  good  to  be  pushin'  ideas  along 

To  add  to  the  wisdom  o'  men, 
So  I  feel  the  old  longin'  for  writin'  grow  strong — 

'Cause  I've  got  a  new  pen. 


15 


MEMORIES. 
*  + 

The  pale  moon  sends  its  mellow  silvery  beams 
In  faintly  glowing  shimmers  through  the  trees, 
Casting  the  shadows  of  the  limbs  and  leaves 
In  myriad  forms,  changing  with  every  pulse 
Of  passing  fancy  that  the  mind  creates. 
Soothing  the  soul  to  sleep  with  that  quiet  peace 
That  fills  its  slumbers  with  refreshing  dreams 
And  memories  of  the  past.    We  live  again 
The  boyhood  days  with  every  escapade 
And  petty  prank — our  quarrels  with  our  friends — 
Forgiven  in  a  day — the  pretty  petite  form 
And  dreamy  eyes  of  her  for  whom  we  first 
Conceived  the  subtle  sentiment  of  love ; 
And  all  the  likes  and  dislikes  of  our  youth, 
Passing  before  us  in  the  softened  light 
Formed  by  the  moonbeams  and  the  lapse  of  time. 
Again  we  play  the  truant  from  the  school, 
And  wander  off  with  some  congenial  mate 
Into  the  woods,  where  flows  the  mountain  brook 
In  tiny  foaming  cataracts  where  lurks 
The  speckled  trout.    With  angle  worms  for  bait, 
A  slim  birch  sapling  fitted  for  a  rod 
And  twine  well  knotted  to  the  pole  and  hook, 
We  seek  with  patience  worthy  of  success, 
To  lure  the  wary  beauties  to  their  death. 
And  when  at  last  we  land  a  hungry  fish, 
Less  cautious  than  the  rest,  that  takes  the  bait 
Our  crude  art  has  prepared,  we  leap  with  joy, 
And  all  the  dread  we  had  of  going  home ; 
The  fear  of  father's  vigorous  reproof; 
The  earnest  admonition  mother  gave, 
The  angry  master  waiting  at  the  school ; 
Are  driven  from  our  thoughts,  lost  for  a  time, 
16 


Or  buried  in  the  raptures  of  the  hour. 
We  stroll  once  more  across  the  pasture  field 
Dotted  with  daisies,  common  as  the  grass 
That  grows  beneath  our  feet.    Nor  do  we  see 
The  beauty  of  their  bloom  until  in  later  years, 
Far  distant  from  the  spot  whereon  they  grew, 
In  some  vast  town  where  flowers  are  seldom  seen 
Fresh  from  the  fields,  when  slowly  on  our  minds 
The  truth  begins  to  dawn  with  growing  force 
That  these  pale  petals  with  a  heart  of  gold, 
Passed  by  unheeded  in  the  country  fields, 
Are  worthy  of  a  place  in  men's  esteem 
Who  love  pure  beauty  just  for  beauty's  sake. 
The  sultry  summer  day  we  spend  with  glee 
Lolling  about  or  swimming  in  the  hole 
That  deepens  in  the  stream  above  the  spot 
Where  creek  and  river  join.    The  hot  sun  glares 
Upon  our  naked  forms  and  burns  the  skin 
'Till  crimson  blisters  raise  upon  our  backs. 
We  heed  it  not  until  the  chafing  clothes, 
Erstwhile  put  on,  reminds  us  of  the  truth 
That  no  great  pleasure  ever  comes  to  man 
That  does  not  bring  its  counterpart  of  pain. 
We  fear  to  tell  the  torture  we  endure 
'Till  night  comes  on  and  mother  finds  it  out. 
Allays  the  pain  with  buttermilk  or  cream 
Cool  from  the  cellar,  while  she  gently  scolds 
And  sends  us  sobbing  early  off  to  bed. 
And  thus  the  moonbeams  play  upon  the  mind, 
Rousing  to  life  the  sentimental  traits 
Long  dormant  from  disuse  or  other  cause. 
That  man  is  hard  beyond  the  wont  of  men 
Who  does  not  dream  of  better  things  to  be 
Or  send  his  feelings  floating  o'er  the  past 
Beneath  the  pleasant  mapic  of  the  moon. 

17 


THE  EXPLOSION. 
*  * 

Deep  beneath  the  rolling  -prairie 

Shone  the  miner's  feeble  light ; 
All  around  a  dreary  darkness, 

Blacker  than  eternal  night. 
Hundreds  there  with  pick  and  shovel, 

Eking  out  their  daily  bread, 
Heedless  of  the  dang'rous  gases 

Or  the  treach'rous  roof  o'erhead ; 
Hundreds,  who  for  years  had  labored 

In  the  mines,  from  harm  exempt, 
Knowing  well  its  many  dangers 

Held  those  dangers  in  contempt. 
It  was  early  in  the  evening, 

Tools  were  being  laid  away, 
For  a  week  of  labor  ended 

With  the  ending  of  the  day. 
Men  with  muscles  sore  and  weary 

With  a  week  of  toil  oppressed, 
Thanked  the  Lord  who  gave  the  Sabbath — 

Gave  it  for  a  day  of  rest ; 
Thanked  the  Lord,  yet  while  those  feelings 

From  their  honest  bosoms  start, 
Hark !  A  rumbling  in  the  distance 

Strikes  a  terror  to  the  heart. 
Oh !  how  well  they  knew  the  meaning 

Of  that  distant,  dismal  roar, 
Quick  they  drew  their  coats  about  them, 

Threw  themselves  upon  the  floor. 
Through  the  headings,  airways,  chambers, 

Every  open  space  it  came, 
With  a  voice  more  loud  than  thunder, 

With  a  solid  wall  of  flame. 

IS 


Rails  and  sleepers,  doors  and  brattice, 

Cars  and  timbers,  coal  and  rock, 
Crashing,  tearing,  rushing,  roaring, 

Flew  before  the  mighty  shock. 
Stalwart  men  were  but  as  feathers 

Driven  with  a  cyclone's  ire, 
Fast  their  flesh  and  sinews  shriveled, 

Scorched  and  roasted  with  the  fire. 
Some  were  hurled  against  the  pillars, 

Mangled,  bleeding,  dying,  dead; 
Arms  and  legs  torn  from  the  body. 

Bodies  severed  from  the  head. 
Loud  the  shrieks  of  burned  and  wounded, 

Prayers  and  curses  rent  the  air, 
Strong  men  wept  for  helpless  families, 

Tore  their  garments  in  despair. 
Soon  the  shocking  crash  was  over, 

Deadly  vapors  round  them  crept, 
Wrapt  them  in  a  veil  of  poison, 

Lulled  the  living  'till  they  slept. 
Never  men  slept  more  intensely, 

Never  miner  breathed  more  deep, 
Not  a  soul  in  all  the  number 

Ever  wakened  from  that  sleep. 

Through  the  village  on  the  prairie 

Fast  the  fatal  tidings  sped, 
And  the  rumors,  wildly  flying, 

Told  them  all  below  were  dead. 
Wives  and  mothers  madly  weeping, 

Frantic  with  a  weight  of  woe, 
Clasping  babies  to  their  bosoms, 

Calling  loved  ones  dead  below, 
Rushed  to  where  the  shattered  debris 

From  the  mine  was  strewn  around, 

iv 


There  in  agony  and  terror 

Falling,  fainting  on  the  ground. 
Brave  men  from  adjoining  places, 

Noble,  hardy,  tried  and  true, 
Held  the  women  back  from  danger, 

Meanwhile  planning  what  to  do. 
Busy  toilers  aid  preparing 

Soon  were  ready  for  descent, 
And,  into  the  deadly  chasm 

Sturdy-hearted  miners  went; 
Leading  air,  repairing  brattice, 

Working  ever,  night  and  day, 
Till  the  airways  all  were  opened 

And  the  rubbish  cleared  away. 

One  by  one  the  charred  and  mangled 

Bodies  of  the  men  were  found, 
And  with  gentle  hands  were  carried 

To  the  rough  morgue  over  ground. 
Many  hearts  were  rent  with  anguish, 

Many  tears  of  sorrow  shed, 
As  with  each  arrival,  loving, 

Loved  ones  recognized  their  dead. 

One  there  was,  a  pale-faced  woman, 

Waiting  with  her  children  five, 
Hoping  that  each  cage  would  quickly 

Bring  her  husband  home  alive. 
When  at  last  they  brought  him  to  her, 

Not  a  spark  of  life  was  there, 
Then  she  threw  herself  upon  him, 

Clasped  him  with  a  calm  despair, 
Not  a  word  of  grief  escaped  her, 

Not  a  tear  bedimmed  her  eyes, 


20 


Not  a  sign  betrayed  her  sorrow, 

Save  her  deep-drawn,  sobbing  sighs. 

In  the  gloaming,  when  the  babies 

All  were  wrapt  in  silent  sleep, 
Long  that  mother  sat  and  pondered 

With  a  heart  too  sore  to  weep. 
Musing  on  the  past  and  future, 

Thinking  of  her  husband,  dead, 
Grieving  till  her  mind  was  broken 

And  her  powers  of  reason  fled. 
Springing  up  she  crossed  the  kitchen, 

Cautiously  she  closed  the  door, 
Then  with  oil  besmeared  the  bedding, 

Sprinkled  oil  upon  the  floor, 
Lit  a  match ;  the  fire  fast  spreading 

Burned  the  building  to  the  ground, 
On  the  morrow  six  charred  bodies 

Were  among  the  ruins  found. 
Thus  were  six  more  victims  added 

To  the  great  explosion's  claim, 
And,  although  the  jury  rendered 

That,  "No  person  was  to  blame," 
There  is  yet  a  Court  of  Justice 

From  the  power  of  money  free, 
Where  the  Judge — the  Great  Jehovah- 
Will  pronounce  the  just  decree, 
That  all  those  who  that  day  perished, 

In  the  mines  and  fire,  were  slain 
As  a  sacrifice  to  Mammon's 

Overweening  greed  for  gain. 


21 


MY  FATHER'S  DAY  DREAM. 

/ 

*  * 

One  evening  last  June  when  the  day's  work  was  over, 

I  sat  all  alone  in  my  cozy  arm  chair, 
And  drank  the  perfume  of  the  sweet-scented  clover 

That  floated  along  on  the  cool,  balmy  air. 
My  trusty  clay  pipe  'tween  my  thumb  and  forefinger 

I  puffed  with  a  lazy,  luxuriant  ease, 
The  smoke  curling  up  for  a  moment  to  linger, 

Then  fade  from  my  sight  as  it  mixed  with  the  breeze. 

And  as  I  sat  thinking,  the  smoke  curling  o'er  me, 

There  rose  up  a  mirror-like  vision  of  yore, 
The  land  of  my  fathers  lay  plainly  before  me — 

A  beautiful  picture  from  memory's  store. 
Yes,  there  stood  the  mill,'neath  the  wide  spreading  rowans, 

The  miller's  neat  cot  on  the  brow  of  the  hill. 
I  saw  the  broad  fields  dotted  over  with  gowans 

And  heard  once  again  Avon's  murmuring  rill. 

Bathed  my  hot  limbs  on  its  cool,  rippling  bosom, 

Roved  through  the  woodlands  that  rise  from  its  side, 
Plucked  the  bluebell  and  the  hawthorn  blossom 

That  flourish  so  full  on  the  banks  of  the  Clyde. 
Gathered  the  woodbine  and  fragrant  wild  roses, 

The  daisy,  the  primrose  and  sweet  heatherbell. 
Chased  the  wild  bee  from  its  place  on  the  posies 

And  searched  for  birds'  nests  on  the  trees  in  the  dell. 

There  by  the  road  stood  the  one-story  houses, 
The  thin  strip  of  woodland  just  over  the  way 

Where  the  robin,  the  sparrow  and  little  titmouses 
Were  chirping  their  praise  to  the  glorious  day. 


22 


And  far  up  the  hill  with  the  stone  wall  around  it 
The  high  park  in  glory  looked  down  on  the  plain, 

While  the  stately  old  oaks  in  the  center  resounded 
With  winds  that  to  fell  them  blew  fiercely,  but  vain. 

I  saw  there  the  deer  when  the  cannon's  loud  rattle 

'Re-echoed  like  thunder  o'er  valley  and  hill, 
Gallop  off  then  come  back,  form  like  soldiers  in  battle, 

Gaze  wild  at  the  cannon;  excited  but  still, 
Till  another  report  sent  them  off  in  a  hurry, 

A  frightened,  excited,  disorderly  train, 
Away  round  the  hill  in  a  terrible  flurry 

Then  back  through  the  same  old  maneuver  again.* 

And  here,  too,  the  native  white  cattle  came  bounding 

Out  through  the  dense  wood  with  a  wild  savage  grace, 
The  forest  behind  them  with  echoes  resounding 

Of  huntsmen  and  dogs  that  took  part  in  the  chase. 
I  thought  of  the  time  when  the  forest  extended 

O'er  nearly  the  whole  of  old  Scotia's  domain, 
When  cattle  and  deer  from  the  mountain  descended 

To  crop  the  luxuriant  herbs  of  the  plain. 

When  Wallace  ere  yet  his  fond  hopes  had  been  blighted 

By  cruel  oppression's  dire  death  dealing  sting, 
In  hunting  the  game  of  his  country  delighted, 

Content  in  the  shade  of  oblivion's  dark  wing. 
But  the  scene  seemed  to  change  to  a  ship  on  the  ocean 

Bound  far  to  the  West  with  its  cargo  and  crew. 
I  gazed  from  its  deck  with  a  heartfelt  emotion, 

As  slowly  old  Scotia  receded  from  view. 


*  High  Park  or  "Whaum,"  as  it  is  commonly  called,  is  a  private  deer  park 
owned  by  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  and  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  facing  the  Royal 
Borough  of  Hamilton,  several  cannon  are  placed.  On  all  gala  days  these  cannon 
are  charged  and  fired,  producing  the  effect  upon  the  deer,  herein  described. 

23 


And  when  the  last  trace  of  her  outline  was  fading, 

I  stood  on  my  tip-toe  with  uplifted  hand 
Laid  over  my  temples,  my  strained  vision  shading, 

To  catch  one  more  glance  of  my  dear  native  land. 
Then  out  from  my  dreaming  the  vision  before  me 

Like  Scotia's  sweet  shore  faded  slowly  away ; 
A  dull,  heavy  feeling  of  sadness  came  o'er  me, 

And  deep  in  my  heart's  inmost  recesses  lay. 

True,  there  stood  Penn's  forest  as  stately  as  ever, 

And,  there,  the  wide  meadows  and  tall  growing  grain, 
And  down  in  the  valley  the  swift  flowing  river 

Fast  winding  its  way  to  the  billowy  main. 
Yet  though  my  heattloves  them  with  loyal  devotion, 

My  memory  dwells  on  sweet  visions  of  yore, 
And  pictures  that  country  far  over  the  ocean, 

The  land  of  my  fathers,  old  Scotia's  loved  shore. 

+  *  *  *  * 
THE  COAL  MINER. 

+  + 

A  slight  little  fellow,  not  yet  in  his  teens, 
His  arms  to  his  elbows  tucked  down  in  his  jeans, 
No  cares  of  the  present,  no  thoughts  of  the  past, 
No  plans  for  the  future,  no  troubles  that  last ; 
No  bird  as  it  sings  o'er  its  nest  in  the  tree 
Its  ode  to  the  morning,  more  happy  than  he. 
His  loud  ringing  whistle,  clear,  piercing  and  shrill, 
Re-echoes  the  joys  of  his  heart  o'er  the  hill 
He  is  starting  in  life  as  a  miner. 

/- 
A  youthful-like  personage,  wiry  and  strong, 

Deep-chested,  broad-shouldered,  limbs  supple  and  long. 
The  coal  seems  today  to  be  flying  more  thick 
Than  ever  before  from  the  point  of  his  pick. 
24 


Fast  flows  the  sweat  from  each  pore  in  his  face, 
As  blow  after  blow  brings  the  coal  from  its  place. 
What  pride  in  his  voice  as  she  says :  "By  the  way, 
I  want  you  to  know  I  am  sixteen  today, 
And  I  want  a  'full  turn*  as  a  miner." 

A  middle-aged  man  with  a  calm,  pleasant  air, 
His  face  and  his  brow  slightly  furrowed  with  care ; 
Fighting  life's  battles  with  stubborn  will, 
Doing  his  work  with  a  masterly  skill. 
Leading  his  comrades  in  honors  grown  gray, 
Taking  their  laurels  triumphant  away. 
High  as  a  workman  has  risen  his  fame, 
Till  over  all  others  is  spoken  his  name — 
He  is  just  in  his  prime  as  a  miner. 

An  old  gray-haired  person  who  walks  with  a  cane, 

Every  wrong  step  brings  a  volley  of  pain. 

Walks  a  short  distance,  then  stops  for  a  rest 

From  difficult  breathing,  pains  all  through  his  breast. 

Telling  with  glee  and  a  care  for  the  truth, 

Great  tales  of  the  digging  he  did  in  his  youth, 

The  "soft  snaps"  he  had  and  the  hard  work  he'd  done, 

The  foes  he  defeated,  the  laurels  he  won — 

He  has  worked  all  his  life  as  a  miner. 

A  plain,  common  coffin,  no  trimmings  of  gold, 

Its  occupant  lifeless,  rigid  and  cold ; 

Gone  from  this  life  with  its  pleasures  and  pains, 

Its  rises  and  downfalls,  losses  and  gains. 

Now  all  his  work  as  a  miner  is  o'er, 

And  the  tales  he  once  told  he  will  never  tell  more. 

Green  o'er  his  grave,  let  sweet  immortelles  grow, 

Now  since  he's  gone  where  all  mortals  must  go — 

All  mortals  as  well  as  a  miner. 

25 


THE  PATRIOT'S  OATH. 

+  * 

(A  Tale  of  the  Convict  Labor  System. ) 
*  * 

Scene  First. — A  street  in  a  mining  village. — Brown  and 
Graeme  meeting. 

Graeme : 

Good  evening,  stranger,  whither  are  you  bound, 
On  such  a  night,  winds  howling  all  around  ? 
When  keen,  hard  snow,  fast  driven  by  the  storm, 
Pierces  and  chills  the  warmest  covered  form 
That  dares  to  venture  from  a  cozy  hearth 
Into  the  stormy  elements  of  earth. 
Whence  are  you  bound  ?    I  ask,  on  such  a  night, 
In  such  a  garb,  torn,  comfortless  and  light, 
Out  through  whose  tattered  shreds  the  rude  winds  blow, 
And  toss  the  shattered  fragments  to  and  fro. 
Your  cheeks  already  seem  extremely  pale 
Beneath  the  biting  fierceness  of  the  gale ; 
.  Your  hands  are  numb,  enfeebled  with  the  cold ; 
Your  legs  so  weak  they  scarce  your  weight  uphold. 
Why  not  ere  bedtime  some  warm  shelter  seek? 
And  leave  the  storm  so  fiercely  cold  and  bleak. 

Brown : 

Ah,  friend,  (for  friend  you  are  indeed, 
Else  my  poor  hopeless  lot  you  would  not  heed, 
But  pass  me  as  some  pass  me  whom  I  meet, 
As  though  I  were  a  reptile  on  the  street) . 
It  matters  little  whither  I  may  go, 
As  there  seems  nothing  left  me  now  but  woe. 
But  since  you  ask  me  in  so  kind  a  strain, 
I'll  tell  you  that  I  seek,  but  seek  in  vain, 

26 


A  chance  to  trade  some  honest  toil  for  bread, 

That  my  poor  wife  and  babies  may  be  fed. 

Tis  not  the  cold  alone  that  pales  my  cheek, 

And  makes  my  legs  and  arms  so  numb  and  weak, 

But  hunger,  gnawing  hunger,  thought  and  care; 

Each  help  a  portion,  each  have  done  their  share. 

For  months  and  months  I've  tramped  for  many  a  mile 

In  search  of  some  remunerative  toil ; 

For  weeks  on  weeks  I've  faced  the  tempest  rude, 

For  days  on  days  without  a  bite  of  food, 

Borne  on  by  hope,  surmounting  every  care, 

Till  hope  gave  way  to  sullen  sad  despair. 

Still  on  I  tramped,  yet  dared  not  shelter  ask, 

Lest  I  be  thrown  in  prison  for  my  task ; 

There,  like  a  worthless,  mischief -making  scamp 

To  serve  a  sentence,  though  an  honest  tramp. 


Graeme : 


But  surely,  stranger,  there  is  something  wrong 
That  you  should  be  in  search  of  work  so  long. 
Why  did  you  leave  the  work  you  had  at  home 
Ere  thus  you  started  out  the  land  to  roam  ? 


Brown : 


The  tale  is  lengthy — too  long  to  be  told — 
Out  here  where  all  the  elements  are  cold. 
I  must  be  moving,  else  the  storm's  keen  breath 
Will  freeze  this  poor  unsheltered  frame  to  death. 


Graeme : 


Not  so  now,  stranger,  better  come  with  me, 

A  bite  to  eat,  a  good  warm  cup  of  tea, 

A  cozy  bed,  a  night  of  needed  rest 

May  cheer  you  on  to-morrow's  cares  to  breast. 


27 


Brown : 

A  thousand  thanks !    God  knows  I  need  it  sore ; 
It  ne'er  could  be  man's  lot  to  need  it  more. 
May  God  reward  you  from  the  stores  of  heaven 
For  this  great  kindness  to  a  stranger  given. 

Scene  Second. — Graeme's  house,  supper  table  set. 
Graeme : 

Come  now,  stranger,  just  bring  up  your  chair 
And  help  yourself  from  this  our  humble  fare. 
We  boast  no  dainties  delicately  good, 
But  pure,  substantial,  health-sustaining  food; 
To  that  yoju're  welcome  as  the  birds  that  sing 
The  sweetest  carols  to  returning  spring. 
And  yet,  my  friend,  I  do  not  know  your  name, 
As  for  my  own,  'tis  simply  William  Graeme, 
A  miner  trained  to  shovel,  dig  and  blast. 


Brown : 


I'm  Thomas  Brown,  a  true  knight  of  the  last, 
And  now  I'll  tell  you  how  I  came  to  be 
Out  in  the  cold,  when  first  you  spoke  to  me. 
You  see,  when  first  I  called  my  Susie  wife, 
We  hadn't  much  to  start  us  out  in  life, 
But  through  my  work,  her  thriftiness  and  skill, 
We  soon  had  placed  some  coppers  in  our  till. 
Then  came  the  panic,  wages  smaller  grew, 
Work  grew  more  scarce,  our  family  growing,  too ; 
To  keep  ahead  we  made  a  stubborn  fight, 
But  could  not  do  it,  struggle  as  we  might. 
What  little  money  we  had  laid  in  store, 
Soon  went  to  keep  starvation  from  the  door. 
Then  came  a  change,  the  panic  passed  away, 


28 


Our  hopes  increased,  but  not  a  whit  my  pay. 

Up  went  provisions  ten  per  cent  or  more, 

And  made  us  poorer  than  we  were  before. 

I  and  my  shopmates  thought  it  just  to  ask 

For  greater  wages  for  our  daily  task. 

We  held  a  meeting,  made  a  just  request, 

But  our  employers  seemed  to  think  it  best 

To  crush  their  toilers  that  the  men  might  still 

Be  wage-slaves  to  a  cruel  tyrant's  will. 

They  therefore  told  us  they  would  pay  no  more 

In  wages  than  the  price  they  paid  before. 

We  argued,  pleaded,  threatened  for  a  while, 

Yet  they  refused,  and  we  refused  to  toil. 

They  murmured  vengeance,  but  we  scorned  their  threat? 

Until  they  hired  a  gang  of  "prison  pets." 

Then  we  protested,  but  it  was  no  use, 

Law  backed  them  up,  and  that  was  their  excuse. 

Seven  cents  an  hour  per  head,  they  paid  the  State, 

And  we  were  launched  to  breast  the  storms  of  fate. 

I  left  my  wife,  my  family  and  abode, 

And  ever  since  have  been  upon  the  road 

Searching  for  work  my  family  to  maintain. 

Struggling  'gainst  fate,  yet  struggling  in  vain, 

Hoping  for  better,  ever  growing  worse 

Till  now  I'm  branded  as  my  country's  curse. 

East  and  West,  and  North  and  South  I've  been, 

City  and  hamlet  each  my  face  have  seen; 

Go  where  I  will,  the  same  words  greet  my  ear : 

"We  need  no  help,  we  can  not  hire  you  here." 

I've  sold  and  bartered  everything  I  could 

That  I  might  get  me  necessary  food, 

And  that,  my  friend,  is  why  I  am  so  nude. 

I  know  not  yet  how  Susie  may  have  fared, 

But  if  a  few  more  days  my  life  is  spared, 

29 


Her  tears  of  grief  shall  mingle  with  my  own ; 
Unless  (Oh,  God  forbid !)  her  spirit's  flown. 


Graeme : 


Oh,  fair  Columbia !    Land  that  gave  me  birth ! 

Where  is  your  justice?    Where  your  boasted  worth? 

Why  are  your  honest,  hardy  sons  of  toil 

Cursed  by  a  system  foreign  to  our  soil  ? 

Why  force  them  thus  stern  winter's  storms  to  face 

By  putting  convict  toilers  in  their  place, 

At  such  a  wage  they  scarce  enough  can  gain 

Their  paltry  prison  diet  to  maintain. 

Was  it  for  this  your  noble  Warren  died  ? 

Was  this  the  reason  Washington  defied 

The  power  of  all  that  Britain  could  command 

To  make  a  serfdom  of  his  native  land  ? 

Was  this  what  Henry's  eloquence  inspired  ? 

Was  this  the  end  that  Jefferson  desired? 

Was  this  the  freedom  Adams  proudly  sought? 

Was  this  for  which  your  sons  so  proudly  fought, 

Each  one  preferring,  resolute  and  brave, 

To  die  in  freedom  than  to  live  a  slave  ? 

Cursed  be  such  laws,  and  doubly  cursed  the  knave 

Who  through  them  makes  his  fellow-man  a  slave. 

Oh !  for  a  spark  of  good  old  Yankee  fire 

To  thrill  our  slumbering  souls  with  that  desire 

For  freedom,  which  from  many  a  humble  hearth, 

Was  taught  to  those  who  gave  our  nation  birth. 

Then  would  these  slavish  laws  be  rent  in  twain 

And  freedom  greet  us  with  her  smile  again. 

Those  who  desire  the  race  for  wealth  to  win, 

By  patronizing  such  a  hellish  sin, 

May  purchase  goods  by  convict  labor  made, 

And  sell  their  souls  to  Satan  in  the  trade, 


30 


But  by  that  right  hand  now  upraised  in  air, 
With  God  and  you  as  witnesses  I  swear 
Never  to  purchase  while  life's  breath  I  draw, 
Convict  goods  made  under  such  a  law. 

*  *  *  *  * 

UNES  ON  LEAVING  HOME  WHEN  BLACKLISTED. 

4-  * 

The  dark  shades  of  night  on  the  mountain  are  falling ; 

The  clouds  over  head  are  all  tinted  with  gold ; 
The  shepherd  his  sheep  from  the  hillside  is  calling 

And  gathers  them  tenderly  into  the  fold. 
The  air  with  the  whipporwill's  song  is  vibrating ; 

The  low  of  the  cattle  sweeps  over  the  plain ; 
All  glad,  though  my  bosom  with  pain  is  dilating, 

For  soon  I  must  part  from  my  Agnes  again. 

Agnes,  whose  smile  fills  my  bosom  with  pleasure, 

Whose  slightest  caress  is  a  fountain  of  joy. 
Agnes,  my  darling,  my  heart's  sweetest  treasure, 

So  tender  and  loving,  so  gentle  and  coy. 
Oh!  cruel  misfortunes  have  gathered  around  us, 

All  our  fond  hopes  have  been  severed  in  twain. 
Broken,  the  fond  expectations  that  bound  us, 

For  soon  I  must  part  from  my  Agnes  again. 

Happy  the  moments,  unheeded  their  fleeting, 

When  clasping  my  darling's  sweet  form  in  my  arms, 
Kissing  her  lips  and  a  story  repeating 

That  added  a  bright  blushing  grace  to  her  charms. 
Softly  I  sigh  in  the  depth  of  my  sorrow, 

Since  all  those  pleasures  have  turned  into  pain, 
Soon  will  appear  the  gray  dawn  of  the  morrow 

And  then  I  must  part  from  my  Agnes  again. 

31 


BLUE  EYES. 
*  * 

There's  an  exquisite  something  about  her, 

Some  undefinable  grace 
Of  spirit  or  form,  that  without  her 

Dear  presence  about  the  place, 
Sends  the  covetous  heartaches  thronging 

Each  other  in  wild  surprise, 
That  I  can  not  control  the  longing 

To  gaze  in  her  sweet  blue  eyes. 

Such  eyes  :   In  their  limpid  beauty, 

So  pleasant  and  strong  and  true, 
Urging  me  on,  when  duty 

Seems  more  than  my  strength  can  do. 
I  toil,  and  deem  it  a  pleasure, 

Yet,  pray  that  God  may  devise 
For  me  a  lifetime  of  leisure 

To  gaze  in  her  sweet  blue  eyes. 


THE  LOG  CABIN. 
*  * 

The  old  log  house,  it  stands  there  yet, 

Low,  nestling  in  the  hollow. 
Its  drooping  eaves  in  summer, 

Shelters  many  a  brooding  swallow. 
The  rough-hewn  hickory  timbers  now 

Are  mouldering  in  decay, 
And  many  a  chink  and  crevice  gaps 

That  once  was  filled  with  clay. 
The  great  stone  chimney,  torn  and  rent 

With  years  of  changing  weather, 
32 


Leans  hard  against  the  gable  end 

Still  holding  well  together ; 
Though  here  and  there  the  stone  and  clay 

Is  tumbling  to  the  earth, 
And  debris  from  the  chimney  top 

Lies  scattered  o'er  the  hearth. 
The  latch  string  long  since  disappeared 

From  off  the  cabin  door, 
And  time  has  worn  holes  out  through 

The  good  old  oaken  floor. 
The  pleasant  yard,  where  mother  used 

To  spend  her  leisure  hours, 
Is  covered  o'er  with  ugly  weeds 

Instead  of  pretty  flowers. 
The  little  springhouse,  frail  at  best, 

The  storms  have  torn  away, 
And  all  around  the  scattered  boards 

Lie  crumbling  in  decay. 

Oh,  dear  old  house,  I  love  thee  yet, 

Though  tattered,  torn  and  rent, 
Within  thy  rough-hewn,  sturdy  walls, 

My  happiest  hours  were  spent. 
In  childhood's  days,  when  childish  ways, 

Filled  life  with  sunny  beams ; 
And  when  in  budding  manhood,  first, 

My  heart  dreamt  love's  sweet  dreams. 
But  all  those  happy  times  are  now 

Sweet  memories  of  the  past, 
The  sunny  rays  of  childhood's  days 

Were  too  sublime  to  last. 
Yet  while  one  spark  of  life  remains 

My  heart  and  veins  to  thrill, 
And  thy  rough  sides  together  stand, 

Old  house,  I'll  love  thee  still. 

33 


34 


JOHN  WELSH'S  DOG  IS  DEAD. 

*  * 

(A  True  Tale.) 

*  + 

John  Welsh  is  a  good  old  fellow 

That  lives  in  our  little  town, 
Who's  only  friend  and  comrade 

Was  his  dog — a  curly  brown. 
For  many  a  year  it  had  followed 

Wherever  its  master  led, 
But  now  in  yon  shaded  hollow 

John  Welsh's  dog  lies  dead. 

A  friend  more  loving  and  faithful, 

John  never  again  will  find. 
No  matter  whither  he  wandered, 

Drake  plodded  along  behind. 
Went  with  him  by  day  to  his  labor, 

By  night  kept  watch  by  his  bed. 
Who  would  not  pity  our  neighbor 

John  Welsh,  his  dog  is  dead. 

Old  John  (the  more's  the  pity) 

Is  fond  of  his  "barley  bree," 
And  the  other  night  in  the  "City" 

He  went  upon  the  spree. 
Poor  Drake  still  faithfully  followed 

The  bent  of  his  drunken  tread, 
But  when  the  sun  rose  in  the  morning 

John  Welsh's  dog  was  dead. 

John  started  home  in  the  darkness 
When  the  midnight  hour  was  nigh, 


But  he  soon  was  sleeping  softly 
'Neath  a  moonless  starry  sky. 

While  the  dog  lay  down  beside  him, 
Watching  o'er  his  earthen  bed. 

But  before  his  slumbers  ended, 
John  Welsh's  dog  was  dead. 

Two  travelers  found  John  lying 

Asleep  on  the  dusty  road, 
And  were  stooping  down  to  take  him 

With  them  to  his  quiet  abode, 
When  Drake,  still  faithful  as  ever, 

Thought  they  meant  him  harm  instead, 
Sprang  up  to  defend  his  master, 

And  John  Welsh's  dog  is  dead. 

For  the  man  that  the  dog  encountered, 

Drew  out  from  his  pocket  a  knife, 
And  slashing  around  in  his  anger, 

Soon  bereft  the  poor  dog  of  its  life, 
For  a  blow  struck  it  fair  on  the  jug'lar, 

Nearly  severing  body  and  head, 
And  there  by  the  roadside,  bleeding, 

John  Welsh's  dog  lay  dead. 

Aimlessly  hither  and  thither 

The  old  man  wanders  alone, 
Sorely  his  heart  is  aching 

For  the  good  old  friend  that  is  gone, 
For  the  life  of  a  noble  being 

Passed  out  when  its  spirt  fled, 
And  there,  as  a  proof  of  its  valor, 

John  Welsh's  dog  lay  dead. 


35 


No  wonder  the  tear  drops  glisten 

Like  dew  on  the  old  man's  cheeks, 
And  his  voice  grows  hoarse  and  husky 

When  of  his  poor  dog  he  speaks, 
And  the  children  watch,  as  he  passes, 

The  careworn  droop  of  his  head, 
And  whisper  the  one  to  the  other, 

That  "John  Welsh's  dog  is  dead." 

*  *  *  *  * 

TO  A  LADY,  WITH  A  PRESENT  OF  AN  ALBUM. 

*  * 

Dear  lady,  permit  me  to  proffer  to  thee, 

As  a  token  of  deepest  respect, 
This  autograph  album  —  slight  gift  though  it  be, 

To  use  as  thy  mind  may  elect. 
And  as  on  life's  highway  we  journey  along, 

Be  thy  life  free  from  sorrow  and  care. 
May  thy  heart  be  as  light  as  the  thrush  in  its  song 

Pouring  out  its  sweet  notes  on  the  air. 
And  if  fate  in  anger  should  drift  us  apart 

Filling  each  of  our  bosoms  with  pain. 
Yet  may  we  still  live  with  the  hope  in  each  heart 

Of  the  pleasure  of  meeting  again. 

+  *  •  «  + 

WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 


Sweet  fruit  the  prickly  chestnut  burrs  contain, 
Bright  flowers  oft  blossom  in  the  midst  of  tares. 

So  treat  no  man's  position  with  disdain, 

Nor  rashly  judge  him  by  the  coat  he  wears. 
36 


NANCY. 


Who  would  not  love  sweet  Nancy 

With  her  lovely  raven  hair, 
With  her  eyes  so  full  of  humor, 

With  her  lips  so  rich  and  rare, 
With  her  cheeks  like  budding  roses 

And  a  heart  that's  free  from  guile, 
All  her  features  softly  glowing 

In  a  sweet  enchanting  smile. 

When  the  gloaming  o'er  the  hill-tops 

Throws  a  wierd  and  phantom  light, 
And  the  twilight  slowly  fading, 

Ushers  in  the  hour  of  night, 
Then  my  heart  beats  wild  within  me 

As  I  gaze  into  her  face, 
And  I  clasp  her  to  my  bosom 

In  a  passionate  embrace. 

Oh  !  the  pleasures  of  the  moment, 

Oh  !  the  happiness  and  bliss, 
When  our  lips  are  pressed  together 

In  a  sweet  love-sealing  kiss. 
But  the  joy  that  fills  my  bosom, 

Mortal  never  can  express 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  loves  me 

And  she  softly  murmurs  "Yes." 


37 


A  LETTER  HOME. 


(Written  while  on  a  trip  through  the  Anthracite  region,  looking  for  aid  for  the 
striking  miners  of  Dubois,  Pa.) 

*    * 

Dear  Agnes  :  I'm  up  in  the  mountains, 

In  the  woods,  with  the  sun  peeping  through 
As  I  sit  down  to  write  you  this  letter, 

About  what  I  am  trying  to  do. 
I  know  you'll  be  glad  to  receive  it, 

Though  written  half  prose  and  half  rhyme, 
When  I  tell  you  'tis  helping  me  greatly 

To  pass  off  this  wearisome  time. 
For  I'm  only  engaged  in  the  evening, 

With  nothing  to  do  through  the  day, 
And  living  so  much  among  strangers 

Time  seems  to  pass  slowly  away. 
I  would  like  to  see  you  and  the  babies, 

And  hear  Adam's  bright  boyish  talk. 
(I  was  very  near  asking  the  question  — 

Are  the  babies  beginning  to  walk  ?) 
I  can't  tell  exactly  the  reason, 

When  you  tell  me  how  lovely  they  grow, 
Why,  I  scarce  can  believe  that  the  babies 

Were  born  such  a  short  time  ago. 
We  are  still  fighting  on  for  the  measures 

Our  men  started  out  to  defend  ; 
But  although  we  have  justice  to  back  us, 

God  only  knows  where  it  will  end. 
Still  we  pray  to  the  God  of  our  fathers 

To  strengthen  a  cause  that  is  just, 
And  give  us  the  power  of  a  David 

To  crush  this  Goliath  to  dust. 
38 


And  while  we  are  praying  to  heaven 

To  give  what  assistance  it  can, 
I  am  pleading  the  best  I  am  able, 

To  get  some  assistance  from  man. 
And  I  feel  that  the  efforts  I'm  making 

Are  being  productive  of  good, 
For  the  men  of  the  Anthracite  region 

Are  helping  our  men  to  get  food. 
I  did  not  intend  when  I  started 

To  write  you  so  lengthy  a  song, 
So  I  hope  you  will  not  be  angry 

If  I've  happened  to  make  it  too  long. 
How  long  it  will  be  ere  I  see  you 

Is  more  than  I'm  able  to  tell, 
But  I  hope  that  this  letter  will  find  you, 

Adam,  Agnes  and  Hughey  all  well. 

*J*     *I*     "I*     *!*     *!* 

SUNSET. 
4-  + 

September's  sun,  with  autumn's  glow, 
Behind  the  hills  was  setting  low, 
Reflecting  on  Tioga's  streams 
The  varied  tinting  of  its  beams. 
And  looking  o'er  to  Barney's  hill, 
Where  loudly  sang  the  Whip-poor- Will, 
His  last  clear  song  ere  boreal  time 
Should  force  him  to  a  warmer  clime, 
It  tipped  the  tree  tops  with  its  light, 
And  kissed  them,  one  and  all,  good-night. 
The  dusky  shadows  falling  fast 
A  gloaming  through  the  valley  cast, 
And  when  the  russet  glow  had  ceased, 
It  awed  to  stillness  man  and  beast. 

39 


Each  hill  and  valley,  field  and  wood, 

Seemed  but  a  mighty  solitude, 

So  calm  and  quiet  the  night  had  grown 

Where  nature  called  the  scene  her  own. 
*  *  *  *  * 

HOME. 
*  * 

Land  of  Penn,  dear  land  of  Penn, 

Home  of  brave  and  honest  men, 
Land  of  women  sweet  and  fair, 
Pure  as  their  native  mountain  air. 
Let  me  view  thee  once  again, 
Fair,  though  rugged,  Land  of  Penn. 
Fondly  now  my  mem'ry  clings 
To  thy  cool  and  limpid  springs, 
Forest  glades  and  babbling  brooks, 
Sunny  spots  and  shady  nooks, 
Rocky  glens  and  mountains  green, 
Glistening  in  their  summer  sheen, 
Miles  of  multi-colored  trees 
Bending  to  the  autumn  breeze, 
Mountain  ridges  wreathed  in  snow 
With  the  sunshine  all  aglow, 
Till  my  spirit  breaks  control 
And  stirs  the  longings  of  my  soul. 
Land  that  soothed  the  savage  breast — 
Bent  its  will  to  love's  behest, 
Trusting  in  the  powers  above, 
Preaching  peace  and  God  is  love. 
Land  where  monarch  power  was  shorn, 
Land  where  Liberty  was  born, 
On  thy  past  I  look  with  pride, 
With  thee,  now,  my  thoughts  abide, 
Let  me  view  thee  once  again, 
Fair,  though  rugged,  Land  of  Penn. 
40 


DO  YOU  CALL  THIS  SPRING? 
*  * 

Little  Johnny  Jump-Up  peeping  through  the  ground, 
Long  before  the  other  flowers  know  that  spring's  around. 
Laughing  at  us  cutely  with  your  merry  yellow  face, 
While  the  chilly  breezes  keep  a  blowing  round  the  place, 
And  the  glistening  icicles  to  the  eavespouts  cling. 
Tell  me,  Johnny  Jump-Up, 
Do 
You 
Call 
This 

Spring  ? 

Modest  little  Meadow  Lark  tripping  o'er  the  sod, 
Looking  for  a  nesting  place  where  man  has  seldom  trod. 
Coming  to  us  early  when  the  fields  are  brown  and  bare, 
Singing  through  the  meadows  just  as  though  you  do  not  care 
How  the  hoary  frosts  may  bite  or  pelting  sleet  may  sting. 
Tell  me,  modest  birdie, 
Do 
You 
Call 
This 

Spring  ? 

Little  Robin  Redbreast  sitting  on  a  limb, 
Cheering  all  the  neighborhood  with  your  morning  hymn. 
Loud  your  notes  of  welcome  on  the  morning  breezes  float, 
While  your  human  neighbor  wears  his  winter  overcoat. 
Through  the  dreary  winter  we  have  longed  to  hear  you  sing. 
Tell  me,  Robin  Redbreast, 
Do 
You 
Call 
This 
Spring  ? 

41 


A  PRESENTATION. 
*  * 

Sweetest  maid  in  all  creation, 

I  revere  the  ground  you  stand  on, 
And  my  heart  is  palpitating 

With  a  reverent  abandon. 
For  although  the  ground  is  honored, 

And  because  of  that  I  love  it, 
All  my  veins  thrill  with  devotion 

To  the  girl  who  stands  above  it. 

In  the  fullness  of  my  passion 

I  present  this  little  token 
Of  the  thoughts  I  dare  not  utter, 

Of  the  words  as  yet  unspoken. 
Then  accept  the  gift  and  wear  it, 

And  for  me,  life's  largest  measure 
Will  be  filled  to  overflowing 

With  the  sweetest  kind  of  pleasure. 

*  *  *  *  * 
LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY. 

*  * 
Hark !  the  cannon's  deafening  roar, 

Fiery  flash  and  voice  of  thunder. 
Symbol  of  those  guns  of  yore 

Tearing  tyrants'  chains  asunder. 
Hear  the  bells  of  freedom  chime 

Clearly,  from  yon  ancient  steeple, 
Pealing  for  the  hundredth  time, 

Warning  to  a  f  reeborn  people. 
Hark !  the  cannon's  deafening  roar 

Echoes  as  in  days  of  yore. 
May  they,  with  their  voice  of  thunder 

Keep  the  tyrant's  chains  asunder. 

42 


Freemen,  from  your  hearts  rejoice 

That  your  rights  are  in  your  keeping. 
Many  with  no  other  choice 

'Neath  a  tyrant's  power  are  weeping. 
On  your  Unity  depends 

All  your  rights  that's  worth  possessing. 
Break  it,  and  your  freedom  ends, 

Keep  it,  and  you  keep  a  blessing. 
Freemen !  from  your  hearts  rejoice. 

Many  with  no  other  choice 
'Neath  a  tyrant's  power  are  weeping, 

But,  your  rights  are  in  your  keeping. 
*  *  *  *  * 

(Lines   inscribed   to   Nichol    Ferguson,    familiarly   known   as   the    "Bard   of    Cum- 
bernauld.") 

*    * 

Auld  Nichol,  lad,  my  heart  is  wae 
Ta  see  ye  toddlin'  doon  the  brae. 
That  pow  o'  yours  noo  turnin'  grey, 

Has  seen  its  share 
0'  life,  an'  had  its  ain  adae 

Wi'  Daddy  Care. 

But  still  ye  aye  hae  warstled  through, 
Though  whiles,  nae  doot,  frae  han'  to  mou. 
When  work  was  scarce,  and  wages  grew 

Amaist  ower  sma' 
Tae  buy  the  necessaries  due 

Tae  ane  an'  a'. 

Noo,  Nicol,  I  hae  aften  thoucht 

Hoo,  in  the  pit,  sa  lang  ye've  wroucht, 

An'  a'  your  work  has  come  to  noucht 

That's  worth  a  stime, 
While  auld  age  tae  your  door  is  broucht 

Afore  its  time. 

43 


So  when  I  read  that  letter  f rae 
Yon  "Miner"  chiel,  the  ither  day, 
Thinks  I,  "That's  no'  just  Nicol's  way, 

Though  by  my  hutch 
'Tis  kindly  o'  thae  chapies  tae, 

Tae  say  as  much." 

Then  up  I  gat  an'  swore  an'  aith, 
Quo'  I,  "By  a'  the  powers  o'  death 
I'll  gather  up  my  writin'  graith 

An'  write  a  letter ; 
An'  in  it  something  I  will  breath 

Will  suit  you  better." 

So,  Nicol,  wi'  your  kind  consent 

This  proposition  I  present : 

I'd  like  to  see  your  works  in  print 

Ere  very  lang, 
Makin'  auld  Scotish  hearts  content 

Wi'  mony  a  sang. 

Just  gather  up  your  rymin,  ware, 
"Auld  Piper  Jock"  an'  mony  mair, 
Syne  pit  them  in  the  printer's  care 

Tae  print  an'  edit ; 
An'  be  the  author  e'er  sae  puir 

They'll  dae  him  credit. 

An'  if  the  printin'  has  tae  staun 

For  want  o'  siller  in  your  haun, 

Just  hint  the  way  that  things  are  gaun 

Wi'  pen  or  mou', 
An'  plenty  here  ilk  steek  would  pawn 

Tae  see  ye  through. 


44 


An'  noo,  my  auld  poetic  friend, 
My  best  respects  tae  you  I  send, 
An'  hope  before  this  year  shall  end 

A  buck  to  claim, 
Upon  whose  title  page  is  penned 

Your  honored  name. 


THE  EDITOR'S  FATE. 
*  * 

Dear  Brothers,  weep  not  at  the  Editor's  fate, 

Your  hearts  can  be  proud  though  your  grief  may  be  great. 

What  good  would  it  do  you  to  weep  yourselves  blind, 

When  you  know  that  his  fate  is  the  fate  of  mankind  ? 

But  a  short  time  ago  he  was  happy  and  free, 

Could  either  stay  sober  or  go  on  a  spree 

As  his  thoughts  might  incline,  without  any  fear 

Of  a  bitter  tirade  from  a  "sweet  little  dear." 

No  troubles  to  bother,  no  cares  to  distress  him, 

No  sweetheart  to  torture.  or  wife  to  oppress  him, 

But  free  as  the  winds  on  a  Western  plain, 

Or  the  dark  rolling  waves  of  the  "billowy  main," 

He  went  when  he  pleased  and  came  when  he  would 

And  scorned  womankind  as  a  bachelor  should. 

But,  Alas  !    What  a  change  can  take  place  in  a  day, 

The  man  who  at  present  may  be  the  most  gay 

May  tomorrow  be  led  to  the  very  same  doom 

That  has  laid  the  poor  Editor  low  in  his  tomb. 

The  lamb  that  today  gambols  guileless  at  heart 

May  tomorrow  be  doomed  to  the  caterer's  cart  ; 

Yea,  the  noble  old  eagle,  our  nation's  delight, 

That  today  spread  his  wings  in  a  heavenward  flight, 

Ere  another  day  more  shall  have  passed  o'er  his  head, 

May  be  laid  in  the  dust  with  his  kindred  dead. 

45 


And  so  in  the  bachelor's  case  'twas  the  same, 
In  the  height  of  his  glory  the  fatal  blow  came. 
While  struggling  on  to  accomplish  his  part 
In  the  battle  of  life,  he  was  struck  by  a  dart 
That  a  fellow  called  Cupid  threw  at  him  in  sport, 
Never  stopping  to  think  that  the  weapon  might  hurt. 
Yet  the  Editor  laughed  with  the  merriest  zest, 
If  we  mentioned  the  arrow  still  fast  in  his  breast. 
When  asked  if  it  hurt  him  his  humor  increased 
And  he  always  would  answer  us  "Not  in  the  least." 

But  the  wound  kept  on  growing  more  broad  and  more 

deep, 

Till  at  last  'twas  so  great  that  he  couldn't  get  sleep. 
It  gnawed  at  his  heart  till  a  fever  came  on, 
And  we  knew  from  that  moment  his  chances  were  gone. 
He  raved  like  a  maniac,  talked  like  a  fool, 
While  a  salt  and  ice  pack  couldn't  keep  his  head  cool. 
So  we  called  in  the  parson  to  soothe  his  distress 
To  counsel  and  guide  him,  to  pray  for  and  bless, 
And  the  parson  spoke  comforting  words  in  his  ear. 
He  bade  him  take  courage  and  be  of  good  cheer 
On  the  well-beaten  pathway  across  the  divide 
Known  only  to  those  on  the  opposite  side. 
"For  you  know  the  Good  Father,  supreme  over  all, 
Without  whose  consent  e'en  a  sparrow  can't  fall, 
Will  guide  you  along  on  this  desolate  path, 
'Tis  the  other  ones  only  that  feeleth  his  wrath." 
Now  the  Editor  blushed  to  a  bright  rosy  red 
When  he  found  that  his  bachelor  dreaming  was  dead. 
And  we  knelt  at  the  altar  beside  its  remains, 
Though  we  knew  he  had  only  been  paid  for  his  pains, 
Thus  proving  the  adage  that  sages  have  given : 
"Those  who  lose  hope  on  earth,  look  for  comfort  to 
Heaven." 


46 


And  now  all  ye  bachelors  bold  have  a  care, 
Take  a  brother's  advice,  I  beseech  you,  beware. 
Cure  the  wounds  of  Dan  Cupid  before  'tis  too  late 
Or  you'll  surely  be  doomed  to  the  Editor's  fate. 

+;'*>   +  • 

GRACE. 

*  * 

Our  Heavenly  Father,  being  all  divine, 
We  now  return  our  thanks  to  Thee  and  Thine, 
For  these  few  dainties  from  Thy  bounteous  store, 
And  when  we  need  it,  Lord,  provide  us  more. 

***** 

COAL. 

*  * 

Across  the  lapse  of  Ages  that  have  rolled 
Into  the  Past  since  first  the  Ocean  waves 
Receded  from  the  land,  our  fancies  roam, 
Resting  at  last  upon  a  mammoth  plain 
Dense  with  the  verdure  that  a  tropic  clime, 
A  virgin  soil  and  moisture  have  produced. 
The  tall,  majestic  trees  that  kiss  the  skies, 
The  ferns  and  tangled  shrubbery  beneath, 
Each  in  its  own  "Divine  appointed  way," 
Thrives  for  a  time,  to  reproduce  its  kind, 
And  thus  its  mission  seemingly  fulfilled 
It  dies  and  crumbles  into  dust.    The  earth 
Brings  forth  another  generation  which 
Follows  the  course  its  predecessors  ran, 
And  others  come  and  live  and  cease  to  live 
Leaving  their  mould'ring  forms  black  with  decay 
Encumbering  the  land.  Though       mammals  brouse 
Upon  the  tender  branches  that  shoot  forth, 

47 


No  master  mind  of  man  is  there  to  change 

The  course  of  Nature's  well  directed  plans 

Or  murmur  at  the  needless  waste  of  wealth 

Grown  in  profusion  in  its  varied  forms 

Only  to  perish  and  to  decompose 

Upon  the  earth,  for  no  apparent  good. 

The  molten  lava  seething  underneath 

The  crust  that  forms  our  planet's  outer  frame, 

Thunders  against  the  weaker  spots  with  all 

The  great,  expansive  force  of  heat,  and  lo, 

Mountains  arise,  with  grey  and  rugged  peaks 

Towering  in  massive  splendor  from  the  plains. 

And  here  and  there  a  sparkling  spring  breaks  out 

And  trickles  onward  in  its  winding  course 

To  meet  the  waters  of  another  spring, 

And  others  still,  until  a  babbling  brook 

Is  formed  that  plunges  down  the  mountain  side 

To  merge  with  other  brooks,  each  rushing  on 

To  spread  its  waters  o'er  the  land  below. 

And  ever  as  the  seasons  come  and  go 

The  humid  atmosphere  produces  rain 

That  falls  in  more  abundance  than  the  soil 

Can  well  absorb.    Adown  the  rocky  slope 

The  surplus  waters  flow  with  rapid  force, 

Grinding  great  fissures  in  the  land  and  rock 

From  which  the  forms  of  future  valleys  spring. 

And,  pouring  down  its  full,  mud-laden  stream 

Upon  the  peat  the  forests  have  produced, 

It  leaves,  as  time  goes  on,  a  sediment 

Of  sand  and  soil  a  hundred  fathoms  deep 

That  hides  the  black  deposit  underneath. 

And,  erstwhile,  man  appears  upon  the  earth, 

Walking  upright,  the  image  of  his  God. 

Master  of  all  the  beasts  that  walk  or  creep 


48 


Upon  the  land,  and  all  the  birds  that  spread 

Their  fluffy  wings  to  catch  the  changing  breeze, 

And  all  the  fish  of  every  class  and  kind 

That  live  within  the  waters  of  the  brook, 

The  lake,  the  river  or  the  mighty  sea. 

The  wealth  of  vegetation  on  the  soil 

And  all  the  riches  that  the  earth  contains 

Are  subject  to  his  genius  and  his  will. 

Proud  of  his  heritage  from  God  he  grows 

In  wisdom,  gathered  in  the  passing  years, 

And  handed  down,  increased,  from  sire  to  son. 

A  great  ambition  wells  within  his  soul 

To  know  the  earth  and  all  that  in  it  lies ; 

To  harness  Nature's  forces  to  the  car 

Of  Progress^  for  the  welfare  of  his  race. 

He  delves  and  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth 

Reclaims  the  long  lost  peat,  a  dusky  mass 

That  time  and  Nature,  working  hand  in  hand, 

Have  transformed  into  coal.    The  furnace  glows, 

Creating  light  and  heat  in  volumes  great 

That  rivals  in  intensity  the  Sun. 

The  massive  locomotive  speeds  along 

The  hillsides  and  the  valleys  of  the  land, 

Panting  beneath  the  burden  of  its  load 

It  laughs  at  space  and  makes  the  Plymouth  Rock 

A  nearby  neighbor  to  the  Golden  Gate. 

Over  the  Seas  the  floating  palace  glides 

And  in  its  wake  the  freighter  moves  apace, 

Bringing  to  us  the  luxuries  that  men 

In  other  lands  and  other  climes  produce. 

And  thus  the  long  stored  energy  of  coal 

Springs  into  life  at  wisdom's  magic  touch, 

Giving  to  man  a  masterful  control 

Of  nature's  forces  far  beyond  the  dreams 


49 


Of  any  former  time,  and  now  mankind 

Rejoices  in  a  closer  Brotherhood. 

And  through  it  all  a  mighty  unseen  hand 

Moves  with  a  skill  so  deft,  the  narrow  mind 

Fails  to  foresee  the  consequence  or  grasp 

The  purposes  for  which  It  acts  until 

The  end  is  near,  when,  from  the  furnace  gleams 

New  life,  new  thought,  new  action  and  new  hope 

And  then  the  coal,  its  mission  at  an  end, 

Its  force  exhausted  for  the  common  good 

Returns  to  dust,  its  destiny  fulfilled. 


50 


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